


be your july

by Reiaji



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Adrien and the very bad no good flirting advice, Adrien competes for gold in the simp Olympics (Osimpics), Adrien is very small and he has no money so you can imagine the stress he’s under, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate titles for this fic include, Designer Marinette Dupain-Cheng, F/M, Flirty Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Hot Mess Adrien Agreste, Identity Reveal, Life Swap, Reverse Crush (Miraculous Ladybug), Social media manager Adrien Agreste, They're coworkers (TM)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28982235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reiaji/pseuds/Reiaji
Summary: Two years after leaving home, Adrien has a room, a loving found family, and a thankless job with Audrey Bourgeois, the only figure in fashion with enough clout to bypass his father’s blacklisting.He also has a zero percent success rate when it comes to courting Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Audrey’s relentlessly brilliant protégé.With two miraculouses in the mix, it all gets a little complicated.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug
Comments: 47
Kudos: 147





	1. Adrinette

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very silly life swap/reverse crush AU that I've been writing for fun while I work on a longer WIP! Basically:
> 
> • Gabriel is Hawkmoth, Sabine is Sabine  
> • Marinette accepted Audrey’s offer to go to NYC in Style Queen, returning to Paris some years later  
> • Adrien fell out with Gabriel, left home, and rented Marinette’s empty room so he’d have a place to stay  
> • They met as young adults after Marinette returned to Paris, then got their miraculouses shortly after. Adrien has always liked Marinette, Ladybug has always liked Chat.
> 
> Title from Cherry, by Luna Shadows.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, Adrien was running late.

Despite having woken at four in the morning, when the lights along the street were too faded by fog to reach the attic floor of Tom and Sabine’s. Despite having crawled out of bed by five. The little kitchen oven was infinitely more manageable than its industrial counterpart on the first floor; but he'd still managed to burn two trays of croissants, forcing Sabine to rescue them when she came down at six. 

The bag that contained the fruits of his labour was stuffed in the crook of Adrien’s arm, perilously close to being crushed by his armpit.

“Chloé!” he shouted, ignoring glares from passersby. She was a distant silhouette in pale summer silk, making her way to a crookedly parked limo at the far end of Rue Gotlib.

“Chlo, wait up!”  
  
He could tell that she’d heard him, because she started to walk faster. Fortunately for Adrien, she was hampered by her heels, and he reached her elbow just as she unlocked her car. 

“What?” said Adrien, sidestepping the passenger door. “Now that I'm a tax-paying citizen, I’m not allowed to ride in your car?”

“Is that a rhetorical question? Jean, don't _wave_ at him.”

Adrien yanked open the back door of the limo. A cloud of air conditioning wafted out to greet him, and he sighed with relief, sliding into the backseat. 

“Sure,” said Chloé. “Climb in uninvited. I _am_ your personal chauffeur, after all."

“I’m late.”

“So?”

“So,” said Adrien, “do you want your mother to fire me?”

Chloé sighed, crossed one leg over the other, and slammed the front door of the limo shut.

This was his favorite time of day: the witching hour just after dawn, when the heat of summer hadn't yet descended like a vast, overbearing mirage. _Blue hour,_ Sabine called it. _A reward for early risers._ The sunrise was often stained with smog, but Adrien’s view was the best in the house.

 _Wasted on me,_ Marinette had laughed. If he knew her at all, then she was probably still asleep.

There was prestige that came with a car like this, and it made the locals scatter like pigeons as they pulled from the thoroughfare into a narrow street. Past neat lines of trees gone brown with the heat, and equally neat rows of curbside cafes. Adrien craned his neck to see them, the bag of pastries nestled in his lap. 

“Jean, could we stop near the corner here? I just have to grab something, it’ll only take a minute.”

“Adrikins,” said Chloé, “I thought you were running late.”

But he was already halfway out of the car, having untangled the straps of his seatbelt at the crosswalk.

When he returned minutes later, a bunch of carnations cradled to his chest, Chloé gave him a stare that could have cracked tempered glass.

“You’re really still trying it on with Dupain-Cheng? Maybe you’d be able to move out of that attic if you didn’t spend all your savings on flowers.”

The weekday staff of La Boutique des Saints-Peres had Adrien's face committed to memory. By the time he'd come crashing through the glass double doors, out of breath and sweating through his shirt, the checkout girl had a bouquet already packed.

“Ridiculous,” said Chloé. “Just ridiculous. I don’t buy flowers every day for my real, _non-hypothetical_ girlfriend.”

“Well,” said Adrien, “maybe she’d like it if you did. Have you ever tried it to know?”

“Have _you_ tried getting straight to the point and doing a split on Marinette’s desk?”

A snicker sounded from inside Adrien’s bag, and he was forced to endure the rest of the journey in silence.  


  


* * *

  


Marinette’s apartment in the seventh arrondissement was past two digital keypads and up a flight of stairs, in a classic Haussman with a clean-cut façade and well-trimmed flower boxes lining its windows.

Chloé rang the buzzer no less than four times, then started banging with her fist.

“You better not still be asleep, Dupain-Cheng. Open the door, it’s about to be thirty degrees.”

It was only a minute before the door eased open, and two bright blue eyes peered out from the crack. Adrien’s heart rate sped, then stumbled. 

“Good morning to you too, Chloé.”

She was wearing a pink dressing gown, and her dark, fine hair fell long and rumpled around her shoulders. She looked paler than usual—no doubt from overwork. But her freckles stood out clear as ever, no less stark for the time away from sunlight.

Marinette glanced at him, and her face brightened.

“Oh, Adrien. Is that from my parents?”

“Yes,” he squeaked. Chloé shouldered past him and vanished into the flat. “Good morning. Breakfast. Your papa says hello.”

“You’ve got your things there?” she asked, bumping the door aside with her hip. Adrien clutched his bags to his chest. He spent as much time in Marinette’s apartment as he did in his own room; but there was something about seeing her like this, sleepy-eyed and smiling, that unhinged him even more than usual.

“Um, yeah! Everything’s ready for the meeting.”

“Come on in. I’ll just be a second.”

Adrien came in, and she shut the door behind him. Turning on her pink slippered heel, she slipped into the bedroom at the far end of the flat.

The living room was Marinette’s unofficial atelier. Instead of a TV or a reading chair, there was a desk, an adjustable mannequin, and a heavily cluttered sewing table. The coffee table had been pushed beside the couch, carefully cleaned of creative debris. A closet that might usually be used for coats led into Marinette’s fabric storage; neat lines of shelves meticulously ordered by pattern, material, color, and season. 

Adjacent was the kitchen; and separate, Marinette’s bedroom. He heard a loud _thump_ from the far side of the room as Chloé hurled herself on the couch.

 _It’s work,_ he told himself firmly. _Just work._

The flowers went into water, then into a glass vase that Marinette kept in the cupboard above her sink. Once they were dealt with, Adrien opened the bakery bag and gave its contents a scrutinizing look.

He put Marinette’s breakfast on a plate.

He made a coffee in one of the chipped ceramic cups that was piled in the dish rack next to the sink.

He set it, the carnations, and the plate of pastries onto the little desk that was next to the sewing table, then sat across from it, opening his laptop.

Technically,Adrien was a social media manager, which put him in charge of Marinette’s online press. _Realistically,_ he was Gabriel’s runaway son; and nobody expected him to stay employed for longer than it took his father to make a phone call. It was a miracle he’d been allowed to attach his name to the campaign. He wasn’t about to let it slip from his grasp.

He was halfway through his inbox when Marinette reappeared, crisply dressed in an A-line skirt and open-backed blouse that tied at the neck.

“Is that for me? Thank you.”

She stooped, pressing a kiss to Adrien’s cheek. He wondered if she could feel him superheating.

“Anytime,” he said. “Did you—ah—make those?” 

He nodded at her outfit. _Wow. Real smooth._  
  
“It’s store-bought,” she said. “I made some modifications.” Perusing the plate, she picked up an almond croissant. “These look wonderful. Did _you_ make _these?”_  
  
Adrien had, as a matter of fact, dragged himself downstairs two hours before dawn in order to do precisely that.

As it was, he didn't have time to admit to it. An abrupt knock put an end to the conversation, and a moment later, the door swung inwards, admitting the fourth person in their party of five. 

“Oh, Théo, good morning." Marinette was already preoccupied, poring over a notebook of sketches. “Make yourself at home. Nath should be on his way.”  
  
“Hey,” said Théo, with a doe-eyed look that Marinette serendipitously missed. As though he could sense what Adrien was thinking, Plagg snorted from inside his shirt.

He covered the sound by coughing into his elbow. When Théo turned towards him, eyebrows lifted, he offered the rest of the bag of pastries.

“Um, good morning! We're just having breakfast, so...I don't know what you prefer, but there’s some croissants and some apple tarts if you want.”

Théo’s gaze turned cold as he made eye contact. Without a word, he pivoted, made his way across the room, and seated himself on the couch next to Chloé.

Okay. Fine. Adrien was used to that. He glanced at Marinette, but she was focused elsewhere, seated at her desk and sifting through papers.  
  
Another half hour came and went. By the time he’d sorted through his emails, Marinette had drained the dregs of her cup, standing up from her desk with a lazy stretch.

"It's almost nine. We should get started."

"Nathaniel isn't here," said Chloé from the couch. Théo glanced up from his phone, but he didn't speak.

"I wish he'd check his texts," Marinette muttered. "Maybe I should go downstairs and check that he hasn't been held up at the gate."

Carefully easing back his chair, Adrien shut the lid of his laptop and stood. 

"I can start going over the details, if you want to head down."

"Thank you," she said, with a small smile that made him quake. "Hopefully I should be right back."

Marinette stepped into a pair of flats and left, quietly shutting the door behind her. Tucking his laptop under his arm, Adrien crossed the room to sit on the couch. 

"Okay," he began—addressing Théo, who frowned; and Chloé, who picked disinterestedly at her nails. “Just recapping for everyone: next week we’re going to be painting a mural to promote Louis Vuitton’s new accessory collection, which Marinette is also contributing to as a collaborator. Our goal is to create a viral campaign that will strike a chord with everyday consumers, befitting the public nature of street art.”

He'd discussed the campaign so many times—in emails, with journalists, with Tom and Sabine in restaurants—that he could have pitched it in his sleep. Still, there was no response but silence.

"Right,” he managed. “So… the location that Théo and Marinette will be painting is one of our sponsor’s backstreet offices. Marinette and I went to see it last week. We're going again on Friday to bring over supplies, and the actual mural will be done over the weekend, when passerby are off from work. The weather report says that it should be sunny, but just in case, our backup date is—"

"We know all of this," Théo interrupted. "The schedule was set in stone months ago."

Adrien paused, suppressing a prick of annoyance.

"Right, sorry, I'm just going over it again. This is Chloé's first time here."

"Don’t bother on my account,” said Chloé. "I don't care about the mural, I'm just here so I can spy for my mom."

Ignoring her, he cleared his throat again.

“—our backup date is the tenth. Now, moving on, our reason for meeting today is—”

The longer he spoke, the more Théo glowered, averting his eyes and tapping his foot. Chloé's brow had begun to crease. Even Plagg had sensed the shift in the air, judging by the shuffling in Adrien’s shirt.

“—is to share our sketches so that Nathaniel can prep materials, and I can do advertising for the event.” Adrien pulled his phone from his pocket. “I’ve got Marinette’s, but I can take some photos of yours while we wait.”

“I haven’t done mine yet.”

He blinked. “You haven’t?”

“No,” said Théo—and there was an edge to him now, as though he was daring Adrien to lean in and cut himself. “I’ll text them to Marinette, and we’ll discuss them privately.”

Adrien resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. It was apparently one of the many gestures that lent him a resemblance to his father—which he resented, because Gabriel looked imposing when he did it, while Adrien simply looked like he was about to suffer a migraine.

“She has her design to worry about, Théo. Didn’t you get my email? Or any of my texts?”

“Well,” said Théo, “as I understand it, you’re not the one who’s in charge of this project.”

“It’s a social media campaign. I'm in charge of _this part of it._ ” 

Théo draped one arm over the back of the couch and eased himself all the way into a slouch. 

Adrien slanted a glance at Chloé. He'd hoped that she would back him up, but the wary expression on her face suggested she was more keen on spectating than supporting.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Do you have some kind of problem with me? Because if you do, then maybe it can wait for when we’re not all literally trying to work.”

“That’s funny," said Théo, "especially coming from the guy who can’t stop flirting with Marinette, _at work._ ”

Adrien felt like he’d been clipped by a train.

For a lengthy second, speech escaped him—ample time for annoyance and bewilderment to battle it out for control of his body. The last three months flashed by like a film reel: a hundred and one instances of Marinette teasing him, flicking his nose or his ear or his collar, laughing at his jokes, touching his hand, saying something despicably clever and then smiling at him as he coughed his reply; hugging him, winking at him, kissing his cheek—

—if only they _were_ flirting. Adrien’s life would be categorically simpler.  
  
“My relationship with Marinette is none of your business.”

Théo snorted. “ _What_ relationship?”

“My _friendship,_ ” he snapped, “because we’ve known each other for years, and her parents are like _my_ parents, and she asked me to do this job? At least I get to be her friend.What are youhoping you’ll get to be?”

He knew at once that he’d struck a nerve. Théo flushed the color of an angry sunburn, darkening from his brow to the hollow of his throat.

"Just because she thinks you're her friend doesn't mean that you should drag her down."

" _Seriously?_ "  
  
“At least I respect Marinette as an artist,” said Théo. “The only reason you like her at all is so you can try and sleep your way back into fashion."

Adrien was abruptly on his feet. And then Chloé was up too, fast as the twitch of an eye, from bored to bristling in half a blink.

“ _You_ ,”she hissed, jabbing her finger at Théo. “Shut your mouth if you know what’s good for you.”

Adrien opened his mouth to agree, but Chloé spun to face him, hands on her hips.

“And _you._ Sit your dumb ass down on the couch.”

“Chloé—” he began. Her eyes flashed ice.

“Sit down,Adrien. Do it _now_.”

Swallowing his pride, Adrien obeyed.

The backs of his thighs made contact with the couch just as footsteps sounded in the hallway outside, and the door to the apartment squealed its way open.

“Sorry for the wait!” Marinette called. Nathaniel hovered behind her, tablet beneath his arm. Chloé didn’t react, but Théo froze.

Adrien’s gut turned over on itself. _Did she—?_

“My train was late,” said Nathaniel apologetically. “Would somebody mind going over what I missed?”

A beat of silence, followed by another. When neither Adrien nor Théo summoned the nerve to speak, Chloé sighed and slumped in her seat.

“We just started, actually. Adrien’s going over the schedule. We’re prepping on Friday, painting over the weekend, backup date July the tenth.”

She _had_ been listening, after all. Part of Adrien warmed to hear it.

“Great,” said Nathaniel. “I’ll take a look at the sketches. Do you need me to prime the wall on Friday, Marinette?”

“No, I’ll do it Saturday morning. I think it’d be best to show the time lapse."

Her face was smooth of consternation. As far as Adrien could tell, she hadn’t heard anything unusual.

“Well,” said Marinette, “let’s keep going.” Tossing her keys onto the cabinet by the door, she crossed the floor to sit at her desk. “If everything goes smoothly from here on out, we ought to be finished in time for lunch."  


  


* * *

  


The meeting closed without further incident.

Théo and Nathaniel left by midday, with Chloé following soon after. Adrien lingered, curled up on the couch with his work, sneaking the occasional glance past his laptop as Marinette commandeered her makeshift atelier. 

He loved watching her sew. The toile taking shape around her mannequin was still in its early stages, with only a hint of resemblance to the illustrated design. But whenever Marinette moved, she moved with confidence. There was a deftness to her hands, a surety to her steps, a sharpness to her eye as it darted around the room—every action precise to a point.

Adrien never felt like that. Chat Noir was the only time he came close.

“I better head out,” he said reluctantly. “I told Sabine I’d take the evening shift.”

“When she asks you how I am, say these things.” She murmured her reply through a mouthful of pins. “Yes, I’m eating; yes, I have enough money; no, I’m not dating; no, that is not an invitation to invite the Lê Chiến boy to lunch tomorrow; and yes, I’ll be by to pick her up at noon.”

“Kim is nice.” _Nicer than Théo._ “We were classmates in lycée. Y’know, after you left.”

“I’m sure he is,” Marinette said lightly. She took the pins out of her mouth, stuck them in a roll of thread, and circled the table to stand before him.

“Have a good night, then. Say hello to my old room for me.”

“Good ni—"

Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed his cheek goodbye, then flicked his floppy fringe out of his eyes. Adrien’s lungs made the unhelpful decision to instantaneously empty of air.

“G-good night,” he choked out. Marinette beamed, oblivious.

His cheeks remained red all the way to the subway, and then for the entirety of the ten-minute walk from the metro station to Tom and Sabine’s.

“ _Kim is nice,”_ Plagg mimicked, as Adrien entered through the front door and slipped past the shining glass displays. “What even was that? And what was that with _Théo?_ You’re what—fifty human years old, and you still haven’t figured out how to flirt?”

“I’m barely past twenty,” he muttered, tying an apron around his waist. “And _you’ve_ been in a box for the last two centuries, so pardon me for not asking your advice."

Instead of replying, Plagg dropped into his shirtfront. A moment later, he realized why—there came a clatter from the back room, and the door slid open to reveal Sabine, dressed in slacks and a flour-dusted T-shirt.

“I thought that was you. Could you come and join me? It’ll only take a minute.”

When he ducked into the cooling room situated behind the storefront, he found Sabine poring over an elaborate spread, ranging from gateaus to custard tarts.

“You remember the order from the Chastain family, don’t you? Could you check how many brioches they ordered? I left my phone in the bedroom upstairs."

“Of course,” said Adrien, reaching behind him—and then he froze, his stomach bottoming out.

His phone wasn’t in his back jeans pocket.

“Adrien?” Sabine murmured—but Adrien couldn’t answer, because _his phone wasn’t in his goddamn pocket._ His throat was abruptly vacuum-sealed.

A year’s worth of schedules, photographs, projects—most of it was backed up, but that wasn’t the problem. He had _work correspondence_ on his phone. He had _unpublished articles_ on his phone. He had emails detailing every autumn release that was set to debut at Paris Fashion Week, two entire months away.

_He had personal photos of Marinette on his phone._

Audrey was going to do worse than fire him. She would personally reinstate medieval justice for the sake of having him drawn, dragged, and beheaded. 

“My phone,” he said finally, in a faint little wheeze. Sabine, miraculously, intuited his meaning.

“Don’t worry. You came straight here, so I’m sure you just left it at Marinette’s apartment.” She wiped her hands off on her apron. “Let’s call her. She should still be at home."

Adrien floated after her in a hapless sort of panic as she strode out to the shopfront, picking up the wireless phone that she and Tom kept next to the register. A string of Mandarin and French ensued, the exact words too rapidly strung together for Adrien's addled ears to make out.

A minute later, Sabine cupped the receiver and spoke over her shoulder.

"She found it. You can come by to pick it up first thing tomorrow morning.”

Doused in relief like icy water, Adrien slumped against the doorframe behind him. Sabine offered a sympathetic smile.

"Now," she said, turning back towards the phone. "Marinette, have you been eating well? When was the last time you shopped for groceries? I want you to cook your own meals for once. Do you have enough money? Should I come over there before tomorrow?”  


  


* * *

  


The freshest pastries were sold out by mid-afternoon, so there was little for Adrien to do but look pretty behind the counter, compensating for the fact that he'd skimped on lunch by eating broken cookies from the display. When his shift ended, he said a polite goodnight to Sabine, took his shoes off to exchange them for slippers, and went upstairs.

Before she’d gone away to New York, the attic room had been Marinette’s. There was no trace of her now—only new paint and bare parquet, with his secondhand mattress pushed up to the far wall. What Tom and Sabine had of Marinette’s childhood possessions were lovingly scattered throughout the house; including her first designs, framed in glass on the ground floor.

She'd outgrown this room when she was barely fifteen. And here he was still, years into adulthood, devoid of a single aspiration of his own. 

“Why the long face?” said Plagg, wriggling out of his pocket and zipping up to the loft. “I thought you'd be happy to see her again." 

"I'm just wondering if Théo was right."

"About what? You wanting Marinette to respect you professionally by dragging you into the nearest closet?"

 _Yes._

"No," said Adrien, as he collapsed on the mattress and hid his reddened face in his pillow. "About us working together, and me dragging her down."

After a short silence, he chanced a glance up. Plagg was draped over the metal railing that formed the bounding edge of the loft, tail swishing lazily behind him.

"Marinette is your friend," his kwami said, drawing out the last word so that it sounded more like _frieeeeend_. "She clearly thinks you can do this job. Don't you humans say it's the thought that counts?"

That was—almost helpful, actually. Warily, he rolled over onto his back.

"Then again," Plagg drawled, "if _thinking_ was _doing_ , you'd be in two separate halves by now."

Instantly regretting his moment of faith, Adrien buried his face in his hands.

"You," he muttered. "Are the defining mistake of my life."

"No, kitten, I’m a delight. And your defining mistake was not setting the mansion on fire the day your father cut you off.”

As irritating as it was to agree, he supposed he couldn't argue with that.  


  


* * *

  


When he arrived at Marinette's apartment the next day, he was greeted by clatter from the other side of the door.

That was strange. He'd taken the subway to get across the city, since Chloé wasn't available to drive him. Still, it was barely six in the morning—much earlier than Marinette preferred to be awake. 

The clatter turned to muffled shouting. Alarmed, Adrien raised his fist to knock.

The door flew open before he could do so, and Chloé materialized on the threshold—arms crossed, hip cocked, bored expression resolutely intact.

“Chloé?” he said, too startled to hide his surprise. “What are you doing here? It’s barely light.”

“There’s a meeting today.”

“No, there isn’t.”

“Change of plans,” she answered smoothly. Adrien’s insides clenched with unease.

“I don't understand.Who put this through? I’m the one relaying the schedule.” 

Chloé nodded in the direction of the kitchen. Before Adrien could ask, he heard the scrape of chair legs on tile; followed by a paralyzingly familiar voice.

"Listen to me, you stupid little man. What I'm discussing is a viral campaign for one of the most internationally recognized brand names in the world. So let me be completely clear: you've called me here, less than a week before the event, to show me a total _lack_ of work? A lack of _any_ preparation _whatsoever?_ "

Adrien's blood congealed in his veins, and he surged into the flat, hastily shutting the door behind him. 

"God, Chloé, is that your _mother?_ Is Audrey in the kitchen? Why is she _here?"_

"I invited her," said Chloé. Adrien gaped at her in shock.

He turned towards the cabinet, clumsily depositing the bakery bag he'd packed before leaving. He'd expected Marinette to still be asleep, but he’d brought his usual nonetheless: a small nosegay of ruffled peonies, tied at the stems and tucked into his arm.  
  
_“Why?”_  
  
“Oh, you know. Usually she’s busy embezzling funds from children’s charities, or skinning lost kittens to turn into coats. But Marinette bribed me, so I called her and told her to come.”

For a second, Adrien couldn’t make sense of what she’d said. He was struck by the strange sense that he’d added two and two only to arrive at a solution of China, or rhombus, or blue.

“See?” Chloé produced her phone and waved it at his face. "Dinner reservation for two at the Plaza Athénée. Kagami's never been."

Before he could find the words to respond, the _click_ of knifelike heels interrupted them. In a spectacular display of self-destructive judgement, Adrien whirled in order to face it.

Like a collective nightmare brought to life, Audrey swept out, pivoted on one stiletto, and stared down her nose at Théo, who'd stumbled after her.

"You're out of the collaboration. Don't bother coming again.”

 _"What?"_

“Where’s the other boy—the redhead? No, I don’t care. He’ll take your place at the painting this Saturday.”

"You can't be serious,” said Théo disbelievingly. “The event’s in a week—your protégé _needs_ me.”

Chloé’s mother didn’t dignify him with an answer. Instead, she hooked her handbag over her arm and made a deliberate turn towards the door—only to catch sight of Adrien, who was pressed against the wall, doing his most convincing imitation of a coat rack.

"Agreste," she snapped. He jumped in his skin.

"Fix that terrible haircut, or you’ll wake up to it shaved. Chloé, call your father. He's wasting away."

Without saying goodbye, she blew her way past. Adrien stood in astonished silence, listening to the distant sound of both security gates slamming behind her.

"Well," came a velvet-soft voice from behind him. "That went about as well as I expected."

Marinette had appeared in the entrance to her kitchen, one slippered foot tucked delicately behind the other. Her hair curled down to her shoulders, only lightly brushed, and she was dressed in knit shorts and a loose cotton T-shirt. Théo spun in order to face her.

“Marinette, you know I don’t deserve this. You have to call your mentor and talk to her for me.”

“Do I?” 

Her voice was low, but her tone was cold. Her eyes were bright and sharp and blue, their usual softness suddenly thinned.

“What was it you said yesterday, Théo? If you really respect me as an artist, then you know I’ll be just fine without you.”

The change in Théo’s face was instantaneous.

Shock turned to confusion, and then to horror. His complexion paled from red to white, like the wet flesh on the inside of a fish.

Manifestly calm, Marinette stared him down. The fact that she was still in her pajamas did nothing to lessen the force of her effect, and Adrien watched in astonishment as he withered, ducking his head to avoid her gaze. 

Without a word, Théo turned aside. Adrien flattened further against the wall as the other man barrelled past his shoulder, banging through the door and down the stairs outside.

“Wow,” said Chloé. “What do you think that’ll be, the two hundred eighty-fourth man who’s been akumatized over you?”

“Out. It’s too early in the morning to deal with you.”

To her credit, Chloé didn’t seem offended. Fluttering her fingers in a wave, she left, letting the door of the apartment swing shut behind her.

The tap of Marinette’s slippers jolted Adrien back to the present. She’d departed from the kitchen and was quietly padding towards him, something small and white in the palm of her outstretched hand.

“Your phone,” she said. Her voice was soft in the suddenly empty flat. “Sorry to make you run all the way over here so early.”

“You—” His throat tensed as he swallowed. “You heard what he said to me yesterday?”

“Yes, and I have a confession to make.”

She reached out and took hold of Adrien’s free hand. He started, but Marinette didn’t falter, gently prying his fingers open and closing them around the little device.

“You didn’t leave this here by accident. I borrowed it as you were leaving yesterday.”

He blinked at her, dumbfounded. “Borrowed it how?”

Marinette’s cheeks were dusted with pink, darkening her constellations of freckles. Some small, maddening part of him conjured the image of kissing that color into the rest of her skin, chasing it with his lips wherever it spread.

“Well, I may have…hypothetically speaking…taken it from your pocket while you were distracted.”

 _“_ You _stole my phone?_ ”

He was far too mortified to voice the second part of his thought: _you noticed I was distracted?_  
  
“Just so I could change the scheduling,” she murmured. “Sorry if I caused you stress.”

Her flush had deepened, as though with nervousness. Immediately driven to reassure her, he tucked his phone away in his pocket.

“No, it's fine, I totally get it, I just didn’t think that you…I mean…”

Eager for something to do with his hands, he shifted, scratching the back of his neck. It only succeeded in making him warmer. 

“You stood up for me,” he managed finally. Marinette shook her head.

“You belong here, Adrien. He shouldn't have said what he said. I don’t put up with lies, especially ones about you.”

_Not all of it was a lie._

The wistful beast in Adrien’s chest swallowed up the clamoring of his heartbeat. Marinette’s eyes dropped from his face to his hands. Suddenly, he remembered he was still holding the bouquet of peonies, and he thrust it forward, face burning.

“Oh, I forgot—I brought you these! For your apartment, and…your parents sent breakfast. And, ah, about the thing that you said—”

_Be kind, be charming, say something sincere, tell her now, do it **now,** while you still have the chance—_

“If you think I belong here, it’s just because—” He gulped down the lump that had risen in his throat. “—because working with you brings out my best.”

_Oh god, why’d you make it about **work?** Why didn’t you ask her to **dinner** , idiot?_

Her fingertips brushed the slender stems. The corner of her mouth curled up in a smirk. 

“Really?” she said. “Is that all I bring out in you?”

Very abruptly—like being struck in the head with a sledgehammer—it occurred to Adrien that they were alone in her apartment; and that she was still in her pajamas, tousled from bed; and that she was holding the flowers he’d bought for her that morning; and that— _oh yes, this part is helpful—_ he’d forgotten how to communicate in French. Mandarin, too. Probably English as well. As far as his powers of speech were concerned, Marinette may as well have reached between his ribs and scooped his soul straight out of his body, like a fairground goldfish. 

Marinette drew one peony from the bouquet and snapped the stem with her fingernail, just below the blossom. She tucked the flower into her hair, shell pink on midnight black. 

“Thanks for the flowers. And for breakfast. Will I see you later, when I pick up Maman?”

“Right,” he said faintly. “I’ll see—I’ll be there.”

“Right,” she echoed, with a flash of amusement that made his stomach flip in place. “See you then. I’d better start sewing.”

There was no time to lament the loss of his moment. Adrien held onto the breath he’d been holding, nodding his goodbye instead of speaking.

Only some time later, while he was walking to the subway—measuring out his footsteps to the metronome of traffic, a blue hour sky stretched out above him—did he find it in him to let it escape.


	2. Ladynoir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for a very brief mention of homelessness.

It wasn't that Adrien was afraid to _try._

It was simply the knowledge that any confession—any grand and glittering declaration of his feelings; any attempt, however small, to ask Marinette out for dinner and a drink and a dance after work—would more likely than not fall miserably flat. 

After all, there was no lack of interested parties mooning after her every time she appeared in public. No shortage of well-coiffed men at parties touching her arm or her hip or her shoulder, laughing too loud every time she spoke. No shortage of clients slipping their numbers into her inbox, or attempting to set up one-on-one fittings in the “intimate” setting of homes and apartments.

In all that time, all those parties and galas, all those fittings and photoshoots and first meetings with clients—all those girls with red lipstick and boys with white teeth; cars and houses and blossoming careers and square jawlines free of baby fat, amongst other things that Adrien lacked—

—he’d never seen Marinette show a _flicker_ of interest.

But _knowing_ wasn't the same as _feeling_ , and Adrien was in a definite state of _feeling_ as he caught the train back to Rue Gotlib; as he tried to sneak in through the back door of the bakery, only to be caught by Sabine and bullied into breakfast; as he worked the busy morning shift; as he rushed upstairs to fix his hair before Marinette arrived to pick up her mother—as he held his breath for the entire eleven minutes that she was inside the shop, meandering between the displays, helmet tucked beneath her arm and long dark plait spilling down her back.

She’d clipped the flower into her hair with a long black pin, as slender as a needle. Every time Adrien caught a glimpse of it, he felt as though the air would combust in his lungs. 

"Peonies," said Sabine, stepping out from behind the counter. “Honor, beauty, and royal power. Who's been bringing you flowers?"

"Adrien has. He got them for my apartment this morning."

"Oh, that’s thoughtful.”

The instant her daughter turned her back, Sabine winked at him from over her shoulder.

Adrien clutched the edge of the counter, wishing he could split from his skin like a cicada and skitter into the nearest crack.

If only there was somebody he could _talk_ to.

But it was nearly midnight in Nino’s time zone, and Plagg would sooner tease him than advise him. Chloé was out of the question, too. In the three months since Adrien had started work, she’d learned to ward off any mention of Marinette by calmly clapping her hand over his mouth. 

But he did have a friend who was always in Paris—who was only a call and an outing away. A friend who was certainly the smartest person that Adrien had ever met in his life; on par with Marinette, Max Kanté, and God.

 _That’s settled, then,_ he thought to himself, easing down to the counter on his elbows as Marinette and Sabine stepped out through the front door.

_I’ll go to patrol, and I’ll ask Ladybug._

  


* * *

  


It was one of his partner's solo patrol nights, but Chat Noir thought nothing of slipping out to join her under the cover of early dusk. 

The sky was still light, and his GPS displayed that Ladybug was practically stationary—looping in lazy, lopsided circles around the perimeter of the seventh arrondissement, then slowing to a stop on Rue de l’Université. When he found her, she was sitting on the roof of an office whose steel-lipped eaves overlooked the street, fully absorbed by the screen of her phone.

Sure enough, when Chat tapped her shoulder, she flew to her feet and let out a shriek. 

“How?” she hissed, cheeks flaming as she spun to face him. “How do you always manage to sneak up on me when you’re wearing a _bell_ around your _neck?”_

“Good evening,” said Chat, carefully containing a laugh. “How’s my favorite lady doing tonight?”

He smiled, showing off his dimples. Still bright red, Ladybug blinked at him—then clamped her mouth shut and dragged her gaze away. 

“Well, I _was_ in the middle of my route, until a little black cat arrived to interrupt me.”

“You were in the middle of browsing photos on the Ladyblog, like you always do on your solo patrols.”

As though she’d been struck in the spine with a lightning bolt, Ladybug snapped her yo-yo shut and shoved it into the pocket of her suit. Her glower had deepened, alongside her flush.

“What?" he said innocently. “Nothing wrong with a bit of vanity. How did I look? Handsome as usual?"

Ignoring him, she wound her yo-yo around her wrist and made her way to the edge of the rooftop, preparing to leap across the boulevard below. In two long strides, Chat caught up to her, taking advantage of his longer arms to brush his clawtips against her elbow.

Early on in their two-year-long partnership, he’d learned that Ladybug was reactive to touch. It never seemed to surface in the thick of battle—he’d caught and carried her more times than he could count. It was only when they were alone, on summer nights like this; with hot, humid air sitting heavy over the city, making its lights run thick and wet as paint. 

Sure enough, Ladybug stopped dead in her tracks. A jolt travelled down the length of her arm, from the joint of her shoulder to the tips of Chat’s fingers. 

“Bug,” he said, “hold on, don’t go. I came to find you because I need your advice.”

For a moment, she didn’t seem to hear him. Then she turned and looked at him over the slope of her shoulder, her face almost hidden by the fall of her fringe. 

“My advice on what?”

“Skip patrol, and I’ll tell you? We can get dinner. My treat.”

And then—for extra insurance—he flashed his dimples again.

Ladybug sucked in her lower lip, making her pinkened cheeks puff out. She’d clearly realized that he was straining to endear himself, and he could sense her perfunctory resistance caving.

“Fine,” she said weakly. “But let’s go somewhere quiet. I don’t feel like beating off reporters with a stick two hours before I head home for bed.”

In gratitude, he grinned at her. “I know just the place.”

  


* * *

  


Inside—past a set of cherry-red doors whose chipped glass panels were plastered with flyers—they took up seats in a dim backroom, away from passerby who might glimpse them through the windows. The interior of the restaurant was distinctly themed: dark, varnished wood and marbled counters, neat lines of bar stools and electric lanterns replicating the look of street food stalls.

When they arrived, Chat excused himself to the restroom so he could detransform and fetch his wallet. By the time he returned, Ladybug had sniped the bill; ordered a banquet for them both; and piled a colorful buffet of toppings into his bowl, stacking everything from bean sprouts to narutomaki in neat little heaps atop his noodles.

“It’s been years since I ate in a place like this.”

“Right?” he said cheerfully. “All the cafés around here are priced up for tourists, but ramen is only ten euros, and I can get like, a thing of extra noodles to eat for dinner tomorrow night.”

Ladybug gave him a sideways stare.

“You’re feeding yourself with uncooked noodles?”

“I just said cafés were expensive.”

“Two years ago, when I first met you, you didn’t know how to count spare change.”

“Well,” said Chat haughtily, “I’m an adult now, and I’ve evolved. I have credit history, Ladybug. I have _budgets_.”

He also had barely any savings. He'd spent the first week of his newly emancipated life having an extended breakdown in Nino’s bedroom, intermittently crying into pillows and picking at plates of food from the fridge. He'd spent the last more-or-less two years reacquiring a wardrobe, the laptop he used for work, and fresh copies of the documents his father had refused to send him. The passport in his nightstand was so new that it squeaked.

Ladybug knew some of it, but not all of it. Telling her would only make her worry—and it would be spectacularly selfish to add to the weight of guardianship upon her shoulders.

“I have a spreadsheet,” he added belatedly. “I made it color-coded and everything.”

To his relief, she didn’t push him for details. She only turned back to her serve of noodles, shoulders ever-so-slightly hunched.

“Was that what you needed my advice about?”

"Oh. No. It's kind of a personal thing, so if you're worried about identities, then you can tell me to stop."

“It's fine,” she said quickly. “What's on your mind?”

Chat took a sip from the glass at his elbow, buying himself a moment to think. Fu had forbidden discussion of their civilian lives, but surely, if he kept the details vague...

“Have you ever...been interested in someone you work with? Romantically, I mean. Interested romantically.”

He felt, more than saw, when Ladybug stiffened.

Suddenly nervous at how she might judge him, he poked at the bottom of his bowl with his chopsticks. The urge to explain himself was compulsive.

“Don’t get me wrong, she’s not _just_ a coworker. I’ve known her for a lot longer than we’ve been working together. She got me my job, kind of. She’s my friend.”

“But you like her,” said Ladybug. She was busy stirring broth in the dregs of her bowl, her frown re-settled over her face.

“Right. And I’ve tried to make it obvious, but… I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m not actually serious.”

“No?”

“No.” _Poke._ “And I’m losing my mind about it, it’s driving me _insane_ , and it’s not even like I’m that afraid of being rejected, it’s just—” _Poke._ “I _need_ the job, and I _do_ love working with her, and her whole family has done so much for me already, and I can’t—I really don’t think I can afford to screw up the one good thing I’ve actually got going for me.”

_Poke._

For a minute, Ladybug didn't respond. The expression on her face was startlingly blank, and her hand had come to rest on the tabletop, tapping her ladle on the rim of her bowl.

“So,” she said, "let me see if I’ve got this straight.”

Chat waved his chopsticks in what he hoped was a permissive manner.

“You like your coworker, who's also a close friend, but you don't know how to ask them out without risking your friendship _and_ your partnership. On top of this, the job is really important to you, and they have no idea that you feel this way. So now you're pining after them, withering away internally like some sad little houseplant, and every time they're near you, you feel like you're dying, but you can't just up and say, _hey, as your friend, could you please stop asking me on dates? Could you please stop talking about other girls? Consider doing something else instead, like taking your clothes off and kissing me on the mouth. And by the way, I’ve loved you for the last two years._ Is that the gist of how you feel?”

She delivered the whole speech without stopping between sentences, or taking so much as a single breath. When she’d finished, she picked up her soft-boiled egg and crammed the entire thing into her mouth.

“Wow,” said Chat. “That’s _exactly_ it. More than the gist, you hit the nail on the head.”

Ladybug took a second to swallow, then swiped the back of her hand across her mouth.

“Yes. Aren't I the expert?"

In the ambience of the booth, she was all shades of amber, the light laid low over her dark, shining hair. Her mood had taken a turn for the morose. Why, he wasn’t certain—Ladybug was a great number of things, kind and chaotic and quick-tempered and clever; but it was difficult to see her as unlucky in love. 

Possessed by a wistfulness he couldn't quite place, he dragged his stool across the floorboards in order to place himself closer to her elbow.

“What would you do if you were in my position?"

Ladybug let out a strangled little laugh.

“Sorry, chaton, I’m a bad person to ask. I’ve never acted on _my_ feelings either.”

“Why not?” he persisted. He'd inhaled the better part of his ramen already—he must have been hungrier than he'd realized. But there were still a few mouthfuls at the bottom of his bowl, and he tipped it carefully to scoop out the dregs.

"Whoever you are as a civilian, I bet you’re incredible. Anyone would jump at the chance to date you.”

"Would you?”

"Would I what?”

"Pretend that it’s you," said Ladybug, eyes fixed to the surface of her soup. "How would I need to ask for you to say yes?”

To his credit, Chat considered it carefully. 

Her phrasing struck him as a little odd, but Ladybug so rarely shared her civilian life with him. If she’d asked, then it must be critically important—and if nothing else, he could have a stab at cheering her up. 

"Bug, I’m delighted to hear you ask. Nobody better to give you advice than the most talented flirt in all of Paris.” 

Ladybug's free hand was resting on her thigh, loosely scrunched against her knee. In one smooth movement, he plucked it out of her lap, gently curling his fingers around her wrist.

“Here’s how we’re going to begin. Make direct eye contact and start with a compliment. Don’t mention their appearance—talk about something they did, or a quality of theirs that you admire. Cheesy is better than insincere.”

“Oh,” she said softly. “That’s not actually awful advice.”

“Compliment is step one. Steps two through four are puns.”

“I spoke too soon. What's step five?”

“You can’t skip the puns, they’re a metric of taste. And if you're going to start a conversation, then you may as well do it with a sense of humor.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he forged on. “Now, for step five, all you need is to memorize this phrasing. Like so—”

He lifted her hand inside his own and laid the ghost of a kiss across her knuckles, so light they barely brushed his lips. 

“My lady, it's been an honor to accompany you this evening. Would you consider going out with me on a romantic date, same time next week?”

Lowering her wrist, he waited, breath bated. 

But instead of critiquing his flirting technique, Ladybug stared at him in silence. A minute ticked by—sixty sticky seconds. The nape of Chat’s neck began to feel warm, despite the artificial coolness of the room. 

“Okay,” she said slowly. “I think I can manage that.”

Relieved, he beamed at her. “For you, it should be easy.”

He made to disentangle their hands, but Ladybug twined them more tightly together, snugly slotting her fingers between his.

“What about the hand kiss? Is that important?”

“Oh. I guess not? It’s just how I was taught.”

"By who, your governess in the eighteenth century?”

“Firstly, shut up, and secondly, you're missing the point. It's not about actions, it's all about confidence.” He pointed at her firmly using his free hand. “How is this man going to read your mind if you’re not willing to put yourself out there? You have to fake it until you make it.”

Ladybug made a face, but let his hand remain with hers, the bulk of her wrist a warming weight. 

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“It isn’t, actually. My civilian life is a mess. The only way I’ve made it this far is by pretending that none of it actually gets to me.”

As soon as he said it, he suppressed the urge to wince. _God, why'd you say that? As though anyone needed to hear it._

Of course he had Marinette, and Sabine and Tom, and Nino and Alya and perhaps even Chloé—but what did he have to show for their confidence? Being Chat Noir was the one thing he excelled at. The last thing he needed was to make Ladybug think he was too much of a flight risk to wield the black cat. 

“Anyway,” he went on, with a too-quick smile—“—you should definitely ask your coworker on a date. Anyone would count themselves lucky to be with you.”

The dark flush of Ladybug’s cheeks was almost gold in the honeyed light.

“Don’t say that if you don’t really mean it.”

“When do I ever say things I don’t mean?”

She glanced away from him as though he’d scalded her. Her lips parted, as though she meant to say something else—but then she stopped and swallowed it down.

“So,” she said quietly, “you haven’t asked your girl out yet?”

“No.”

“And you’re not going to do so in the next…two or so weeks?”

He briefly thought of that moment in Marinette’s apartment: pink flower in her black hair; light dappled over her like sunshine through water. He allowed himself one silent moment of lament before he forced a smile back to his lips.

“Not until I have the right opportunity.”

“Okay.”

Before he could question why she’d bothered to ask, she clasped his hand between his palms and met his gaze directly, her eyes gone earnest.

“Just so you know,” she said in a rush, “anyone would be lucky to be with you, too. _I’m_ lucky to have you as my partner.”

“Oh. Well. Thank you, my lady.”

“I mean it.” Her brow had furrowed again, as though she’d somehow hoped for a different answer. “And I don’t just mean because of your miraculous. One day I’ll know you as a civilian, and then we can really be—”

She stopped, then started again.

“—and then we can really be honest with each other.”

Chat hesitated.

They talked about this often—wanting to reveal themselves someday. To share their civilian lives in the aftermath of their victory. But the fight against Hawkmoth had dragged on two years now, and they were no closer to exposing him than they were at the start. He could barely keep himself afloat in the present, to say nothing of a faint and faraway future. 

But he could tell that Ladybug’s mind was on other subjects. A high flush still stained her cheeks; and her eyes had that wistful, sparkling look that always overtook her when she dwelt on their reveal. 

“I have to go,” he told her gently. “I still have work to do when I get home.”

Ladybug started, released his hands, and shifted backwards on the seat of her barstool.

“Thanks for talking to me,” he added, stacking their empty bowls on the tabletop between them. His partner hastened in order to help him, stumbling a little as she rose to her feet.

“Oh—sure! You helped me with my problem, too.”

“Helpfulness is one of my greatest traits. Second only to humor, handsomeness, and wit.”

“Yes,” she said beneath her breath, “if only humility was one of your virtues, too.”

“Thought about my virtues recently, have you?”

That got a smile out of her—fleeting but bright, matching the vibrant colour of her cheeks.

“Maybe I have,” was all that she said, as she turned her back to him on her way out the door. “But if you want to hear them from me so badly, then you’ll have to ask me out to dinner again.”

Cheeky as it was, her face was still flushed, and Chat was almost certain that she stole him a glance as she departed into the warmth of the night.


End file.
